


Oral Fixation

by Kantayra



Series: The Masters and Doctors in the Matrix [16]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Cotton Candy (Food), Humor, Licking, M/M, Naked Public Self-Wrestling, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Rimming, World Domination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25895092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kantayra/pseuds/Kantayra
Summary: Techniques to stop the Master from conquering the universe:1) Attempt to reason with him. Effectiveness: 0%2) Beg/plead/bargain. Effectiveness: 0%3) Lick inanimate objects suggestively in his general vicinity. Effectiveness: 100%The Tenth Doctor sticks with what works. After a long and deep soul-searching journey (where ‘journey’ means ‘wrestling naked with Missy’), the Master resigns himself to the fact that he’ll just have to settle for the Doctor’s mouth instead.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), The Master (Simm) & Missy
Series: The Masters and Doctors in the Matrix [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592659
Comments: 6
Kudos: 60





	Oral Fixation

_Slurp._

The Master frowned at the timing coil in front of him. He’d locked off the hair-trigger on the detonator, and rerouted the ground, so that left—

_Slurp, slurp, slurp._

—Just the alternator, and then he could rig in the chemical reagent. With a little luck and a clean conductor—

_SSSLLLLLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!_

The Master froze mid-thought, turned around, and glared at the Doctor.

 _Slurp, slurp, slurp_ , the Doctor continued with seemingly innocent obliviousness.

The Master’s glare turned into a scowl.

_SSSSSLLLLLLLlllllllluuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUuuuuurrrrrrRRRRRRPPPPPPPppppppppppPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!_

The Master scowled so loudly that suddenly the Doctor froze at the intense wave of psychic ire being directed viciously at him, eyes wide in alarm and tongue still sticking out mid-slurp guiltily. He blinked at the Master in beautiful, brown-eyed innocence twice, like he couldn’t even begin to imagine how he’d incurred the Master’s wrath this time.

“What,” the Master demanded, eyes narrowed suspiciously because no Doctor was anywhere near as innocent as the Tenth was currently acting, “are you _doing_?”

The Doctor swirled his tongue around in a great circle inside the jar and then lapped it back up into his mouth, taking most of what remained of the strawberry jam clinging to the glass along with it. “Nothing,” he answered, acting genuinely baffled at the Master’s annoyance.

A low growl settled into the back of the Master’s throat. “I am _trying_ ,” he explained patiently, “to wire a detonator to blow up Earth’s molten core. It requires concentration.”

“Yeth, I can thee that.” The Doctor’s voice had gone over all lispy because he’d reinserted his tongue as far down into the jam jar as he could get it and was laving it loudly over the insides again. _Slurp, slurp. Slurp, slurp, slurp._

The Master’s eye twitched. “You promised you weren’t going to foil me this time.” It came out sounding far more petulant than he’d intended.

“Well, _technically_ ,” the Doctor corrected, “I promised that I wouldn’t say a word to stop you. And I haven’t. Not a one, just as promised.” And then, with another loud slurp, he blatantly circled the tip of his tongue all the way around the inside rim of the jar.

The Master’s fist clenched convulsively; the switch in his hand snapped as a result. “Now look at what you’ve done!” he accused.

“I didn’t do anything,” the Doctor insisted. “I’m sitting all the way over here, minding my own business.” He proceeded to ram his tongue so far down into the jar that he licked out the bottom.

The Master growled louder, pounced, and didn’t get around to destroying much of anything that day, beyond his own self-control.

***

“The rebellion in Sector IX has been quelled,” Soon-to-be-Dead Yes-Man Number Whatever said. “Public execution of the leaders is scheduled for 2784 hours sharp. We’ve already begun handing out free pinwheels and balloons. For the kids, you know.”

_Slurp._

“Why only the leaders?” the Master demanded. “Surely you can generate more fanfare than that! The simultaneous mass execution of the foot soldiers, for example: that would make for a lovely grand finale.”

_Sl-Slurp._

“An excellent idea,” Idiotic Yes-Man agreed. “I’ll see if we can’t add a second bandstand. We can position it so that the overflow crowd has a good view of the beheadings.”

_Slurp, slurp._

“If you need more execution victims, you can always throw in the rebels’ friends or family members, too. Make a proper festival of it!”

_SLURP._

Primed-for-Deadening Yes-Man gave the Doctor an odd look where he was perched on the corner of the Master’s desk, but then he shook his head and carried on with his report. “Mining output has increased by 12%. Casualties have increased apace as well, of course, but we’ve been shipping in regular replacement workers from the Fourth Planet, so there hasn’t been any loss in productivity. At the current rate, we should have enough enriched uranium to destroy the Seventh Planet within three weeks.”

_SLURP, SLURP, SLURP!_

“Move that up to two weeks,” the Master ordered. “I don’t have time for the Seventh Planet’s daring space-pirate theatrics.”

_SL—_

A pause. The Master waited, waited, waited…

A minute passed.

Yes-Man hesitated, opened his mouth, and dared to begin again. “As for the—”

_—URPPPPPPP!_

Yes-Man froze mid-word and looked anxiously between the Master and the Doctor, as if unsure whether to continue.

The Master fixed the Doctor with a level stare. The Doctor looked back at him with wide, unjudgmental eyes, continuing to vigorously lick his lollipop as if nothing was wrong. The lollipop was bright cherry red, because of course it was. It had turned the Doctor’s lips and tongue bright red, as well.

“Ahem,” Yes-Man said nervously. “If you’ll pardon my asking…does he have security clearance to be present while I deliver my report on troop tactics?”

“He,” the Master said wearily, “is just a piece of desktop art I picked up on some backwater or other. His job is to sit there and look pretty. Pretend he doesn’t even exist.”

 _Slllluuuu-UR-rrrrrppp!_ Impressive how the Doctor could actually express indignation like that.

Yes-Man shot the Doctor (and the Master) an odd look out of the corner of his eye but kept bravely soldiering through the situation summary on the data pad before him. “Our forces on the Outer Rim—”

_Slurp._

Oh, poor choice of words there. The Master readjusted his trousers and forced himself to ignore them.

“—Have taken a licking—”

 _Slurp, slurp_.

Surely, the Yes-Man wasn’t doing it on _purpose_? Was it a Freudian slip, or had the Doctor arranged this somehow? Was it a conspiracy?

“—But they’ve succeeded in penetrating into the interior—”

_Slurp, slurp, slurp._

Okay, even if it somehow wasn’t a conspiracy, the Master was achingly hard now and about to—

“—And backing the enemy into—”

“You know what?” the Master cut off Now-Ready-to-Die Yes-Man. “Fuck this.” He zapped Now-Dead Yes-Man to atoms with this laser screwdriver, and turned his furious attention onto the Doctor where it properly belonged.

During the long and serious scientific study that followed, the Master discovered, via rigorous experimentation, that the Doctor’s mouth wasn’t the only portion of Time Lord anatomy that could be turned bright cherry red due to second-hand contact with a lollipop. Who knew?

***

“You may think you’re clever,” the Master informed the Doctor, “but I’m on to you.”

The Doctor looked warily at him out of the corner of his eye, but continued to insert his tongue into…

The Master sighed, reluctantly set aside his mind-control antenna in pre-emptive defeat, and was forced to ask: “What even _is_ that?”

The Doctor’s tongue slurped all the way back into his mouth, far longer than it had any right to be, until the very tip flicked up the drop of white cream right at the corner of his lips. “It’s an ice-cream cone,” he explained. “An Earth delicacy.”

“Of course it is,” the Master complained with a resigned groan. “What in that cursed planet’s name are you _doing_ to it?”

“Well…” the Doctor explained. “See, some of the ice cream dribbles down to the bottom of the cone. So, while you’re eating the ice cream at the top, it lets the ice cream in the cone get soft. Then you can fit your tongue down through the cone and lick out all the melted ice cream at the bottom, while leaving the outer cone intact.” The Doctor demonstrated the skilful tongue dexterity needed to accomplish this feat at the appropriate intervals throughout his explanation.

The Master gaped a little. “Truly the act of a brilliant analytical mind,” he said sarcastically. “Remind me why I chose to you for my arch-nemesis, again?”

The Doctor glared at him and caught a dribble of ice cream up with his tongue, where it had been dripping over the side of the cone onto his fingers.

The Master’s brain may have melted with the ice cream the Doctor was lapping at. “Do you have to eat it _like that_?” he demanded with what he absolutely refused to acknowledge was a helpless little whimper.

“This way,” the Doctor insisted, “you get to eat all the cone at once at the end. It’s nice and crunchy on the outside, and gooey and sugary on the inside. Save the best part for last.”

The Master shouldn’t have felt as accomplished as he did entirely ruining the Doctor’s plan by smashing the remaining rickety scaffolding of the ice-cream cone to the floor when he tackled the Doctor back onto the bed and made the point, forcibly, that the cone was absolutely not the ‘best part’ and most certainly not the ‘last’ the Doctor would have.

Infuriatingly, the Doctor seemed quite happy with this resolution.

***

“‘Dear Intergalactic Penthouse, this morning I woke up wearing my grumpy face. For you see, I have this pretty Doctor, who was naked and in bed with me. Such a hardship, I _know_! And this Doctor has the nerve to have a mouth, of all things! A pink, wet mouth with a _tongue_. I’ve tried everything I can to stop him from having a pink, wet mouth with a tongue: I’ve stuck my cock in that pretty mouth forwards and backwards and sideways and upside-down, but still the Doctor’s cakehole _insists_ on existing. There’s nothing I can do to stop him, and I’m at my wit’s end. Truly no one else in all the universe has suffered as great and tragic hardships as I have! Please advise me, Intergalactic Penthouse, for you’re my only hope!’” With that last melodramatic pronouncement, Missy threw back her head and placed one hand over her eyes in abject despair. And then snickered.

“Shut up,” the Master said, and banged his forehead against the bar in front of himself.

The bar had become a regular fixture in the Masters’ atrium, one of the few customisations they’d all been able to agree on making. It was a sleek, modern design: classy and tasteful and ideally placed to provide immediate stiff, fortifying drinks to all Masters who had to deal with the daily frustration that was _the Doctor_.

The Master banged his forehead twice more against the bar for good measure, and then sat up properly on his stool again. He reached out for his snifter, filled past the point of decency with brandy, neat, and downed the entire glass in one long gulp. It wasn’t anywhere near enough to get him drunk. He scowled at the empty glass, and it refilled itself immediately, looking as contrite and apologetic as a glass could look while doing so.

On the barstool beside the Master, Missy gave him a look that someone might almost have mistaken for sympathetic if they didn’t know her very well. Or at all. She held a delicate-stemmed glass complete with frilly umbrella, decorative wedges of pineapple and strawberry, and brightly-coloured floral bouquets. Despite the excessive and unnecessary decoration, her glass also contained brandy, neat. She took a dainty sip and savoured the schadenfreude of watching the Master wallow in Doctor-induced misery.

Finally, the Master emerged from his sulk long enough to grumble at her, “Are you ever going to offer concrete advice, or just mock?”

“Oh, just mock,” Missy agreed cheerfully.

“ _You_ wouldn’t understand,” the Master complained. “You have a normal Doctor, who needs to be manhandled and manipulated and coerced into bed like any reasonable Time Lord. I have…”

“A cherry-mouthed slut?”

Of its own free-will, a goofy smile started to form on the Master’s face. He caught sight of it in the mirror at the back of the bar and executed it immediately with an intense scowl. “ _Exactly_.”

“You know,” Missy said wryly, “certain individuals might not consider this an actual problem…”

“Yes, well, those individuals are undoubtedly sane.”

“True,” Missy sighed wistfully.

“It’s just that he’s so…eager. And he has a…”

“Mouth?”

The Master nodded and licked his own lips in memory. “A very pink mouth.”

Missy’s eyes glazed over a bit at her own memories of the Tenth Doctor’s mouth. “A very pink, wet mouth…”

“He’s doing it maliciously,” the Master accused suddenly, snapping from his Doctor-induced daze. “He knows I can’t properly focus on conquering the universe while he’s slurping away like that! He’s _such_ a manipulative bastard.” The Master groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. “This isn’t how I imagined my afterlife going,” he said despairingly. “It was different when we were alive: I could just threaten to kill myself and reduce him to a puddle of anguished waterworks. But now… What can I do?” He sighed wearily and took another drink. “Just once, I’d like to turn the tables on him.”

“Hmm,” Missy considered thoughtfully, leaning forward to rest her chin on the steeple of her fingers as she considered the problem.

“Hmm,” the Master concurred, leaning his head as far back as the barstool would allow without tipping over and looking up at the bare ceiling above for inspiration.

And then, almost as one, the corners for their mouths twitched up in identical wicked smiles.

Now, it was a general truism in afterlife as well as life: one Master scheming was evil genius; _two_ Masters scheming was bungled chaos. And that was exactly what proceeded to occur.

Fortunately, their shared scheme was exactly that: create beautiful, unmitigated bungled chaos.

Missy took a deep breath, fixed the Master with her most disdainful look, and began picking their fight by digging in snidely: “Oh, woe is you. Such a hard life you lead! With that absolute bastard Doctor. Who actually dares to adore you. With his fuckable mouth. That he lets you fuck. Constantly.”

“Oh, shut up!” the Master snarled back at her, immediately enraged as was his wont, lip curled and eyes narrowed. He did so love getting into a nice fight. “You’re just jealous because _you_ got stuck with a sexless prune who flitted about half the universe rather than dropping by to foil your plots.”

“Sexless?” Missy objected, letting herself get thoroughly riled up. “ _Hardly_ , you poor dear. I suppose you’ll never know the joy of coercing your Doctor into bed, trapping him beneath you, watching him squirm and writhe – not because he doesn’t want it, but because he _does_ want it and he’s too humiliated to admit it. A pity, really, that your Doctor’s too _easy_ to go in for any of those games.”

“At least _I’m_ not the easy one,” the Master retorted and then affected a ridiculous, high-pitched voice that was probably also supposed to sound vaguely Scottish but sounded more like an Australian sucking on helium. “‘Oh, Doctor! Be my friend again! I’ll be ever so good! Just toss a crumb of affection over here where I’m grovelling on the floor!’”

 _That_ finally was enough to set things off for good, and Missy tackled him back right off his barstool and onto the floor, her nails clawing into his neck. “You miserable grumpypants!” she accused, ridiculously.

‘Ha!’ he mouthed at her through the really excellent strangulation she was perpetrating upon his body, and shoved her hard so that she flipped right back over his head and landed flat on her back with an “oomph”. To demonstrate his mutually reciprocated homicidal affection, he was upon her immediately and strangling _her_ instead.

She snarled beneath him and kicked him hard in the groin, causing him to roll to the side. Thus began a series of furious kicks and punches accompanied by the two of them rolling over and over across the lobby of their mindscape’s atrium. The Master added in some quality growling and Missy some thoroughly vicious snarling, for good measure.

At last, their efforts bore fruit when a broken adolescent voice shouted out, with perfect schoolboy predictability, “ _Master fight_! Everyone, come quick! Masters are fighting!”

Bless the First Doctor and all his pubescent hormones.

Missy got a handful of the Master’s hair, used it to yank him onto his stomach, and then crawled on top of him, trying to bang his head into the white marble tiles.

“What did you say, boy?” the pair of them dimly heard the Second Doctor’s voice hurrying onto the scene. “Why, of all the absurd—!” he began, then trailed off abruptly when the Master bucked backwards, trapping Missy behind him on the floor now, her legs still straddling his waist from behind, petticoats flying up and around them every which way.

“What is the meaning of this?” Oh, _every_ Master knew that pompous, dismissive voice only too well, and reacted viscerally to it – and, lest it wasn’t obvious: ‘viscerally’ meant ‘sexually’. “You two!” the Third Doctor pontificated like he was the boss of everyone. “Stop that at once! Of all the ways to behave, and in public too!”

Missy took that very well-timed opportunity to reach around the Master, grab him by the balls and sink her nails in deep. He howled, and she succeeded in flinging him off. For one moment she grinned down at the Master in victory, but then he grinned maliciously back up at her, caught one of her breasts in his palm roughly and squeezed until she yelped and pulled back.

“Master fight!” the First Doctor shouted again. “And now they’re coping feels, too!”

At this, even the Third Doctor was stunned into rapt fascination.

“Are they really?” the Fourth Doctor barged in, slinging an entirely unwanted companionable arm around his Second and Third’s shoulders to watch the melee. “Are they naked yet?”

They weren’t yet, of course, but it wasn’t a bad suggestion. On her next lunge, Missy grabbed hold of the front of the Master’s shirt, ripping it open when she dodged under his punch, so that it hung in tatters about his chest. Oh, how he loved herself!

The Master returned the favour by catching hold of the sleeve of her jacket. He tried to twist her arm behind her back, but she wriggled free just enough that he only caught the fabric instead so that the entire sleeve came off in his hands, burst at the seam and leaving her arm now entirely bare.

“Master fight, and they’re stripping each other!” the First Doctor called out. “Everyone, quick!”

“Oh, that doesn’t sound like a good idea at all,” the Fifth Doctor’s voice was mildly worried and flustered as always, bless his heart. He caught hold of the First Doctor’s arm and tried to pull him away. “It can’t be appropriate for us to be exposed to this kind of violence at your age and—”

Missy took that opportunity to leap upon the Master, straddling his face this time and trying to smother him with her skirts.

 _That_ shut up the Fifth Doctor effectively, turning him into a gaping, blushing, wide-eyed mess; the First Doctor shook off his arm easily.

“Master fight!” the First Doctor shouted out again gleefully, while the Master swore into Missy’s petticoats and tore at their seemingly endlessly layers with an air of delighted futility. “You don’t want to miss the Master fight!”

“What, _still_? No one else’s handled it by now?” bombasted in the Sixth Doctor, joining the ever widening ring of ogling Doctors surrounding the Master and Missy’s little sparring match. “Honestly, do I have to do everything my…self?” He paused abruptly halfway through that last word and studied them for one considered moment. “I say,” he continued, voice sounding suddenly much less commanding and more in keeping with the First Doctor’s adolescent horniness, “those skirts seem an unfair advantage, don’t they?”

“More importantly,” the Seventh Doctor cut in authoritatively, having sneaked in right behind the Sixth, “they are obstructing our view. This will not be a fair battle of wits”—a smile quirked at the corner of his lips, because this was obviously anything but—“until they're both entirely in the nude.”

Every single Doctor watching agreed quite thoroughly and got the exact same image in their heads at the exact same time. With the way the Matrix worked, that was as good as word of god, and suddenly the Master and Missy found themselves completely starkers. Except, oddly enough, for Missy’s high-heeled black leather boots, which apparently every Doctor felt were entirely fair and just for her to keep. For fighting, mind you. Not for aesthetic reasons, not at _all_.

“I kept the boots,” the Eighth Doctor announced, having just come onto the scene, “purely for aesthetic reasons.”

The Second Doctor glared at him, the Sixth sputtered, the Fifth blushed and looked deliberately away, and the Third blurted out, “Good god, man, you’re not supposed to _admit_ it!”

“An excellent choice,” the Fourth Doctor said and gave the Eighth a big thumbs-up.

“I also think,” the Seventh considered evilly, “that we might cover them in chocolate.”

“An excellent idea!” the Eighth agreed brightly.

“Oh, I always knew there was something wrong with me when I was you,” the War Doctor came blustering onto the scene at that moment and gave the Seventh Doctor a suspicious side-eye. “Don’t think you can pull the wool over my eyes, boy! I can see what you’re up to.” He turned to the Master and Missy.

The Master and Missy had honestly at that point been easing up on their creative public master-bation a bit, since it seemed that the Doctors were ready to take things the rest of the way. However, the War Doctor wouldn’t settle for the same sub-par peepshow. The two of them scrambled to their feet, each strategically out of range of the other, and panted for breath as they planned their next salvo. Missy did a truly excellent job heaving her breasts melodramatically as she did so, as if she didn’t have a respiratory bypass at all. The Master, alas, had less to work with in that department, but he had got himself quite hard in their struggles to date, and more than one Doctor was casting him appreciative looks as such.

The Master and Missy scowled at each other with unmitigated loathing and then ran at each other with full force. All their soft erotic bits ground and gnashed into each other’s hard muscular bits, and fingers and teeth dug into supple pink flesh everywhere as they wrestled in an orgy of naked limbs for their audience.

“Er…chocolate, you said?” the War Doctor said with a pointed cough.

“Are there _really_ two naked Masters covered in chocolate?” the Ninth Doctor asked with a sort of wary hopefulness as he approached the perimeter.

“Oh, no, no, no,” the Tenth Doctor burst in, “tell me one of them’s not mine. I—” He froze and groaned when he saw that, just as feared, his Master was indeed among the offenders. The Master gave him a cheeky little wave, and then grabbed Missy by the hair and yanked.

“I’m not overly fond of chocolate,” the Eleventh Doctor insisted. “Caramel?”

“Nah,” the Fourth Doctor objected, “gets in your teeth.”

“Candy floss?” the Eleventh suggested.

The Twelfth Doctor, who had finally arrived to catch Missy…being _Missy_ , let out a strangled exclamation of sexually-aroused despair at the very thought. As did the Tenth Doctor, for that matter. Although – to be fair – the Tenth Doctor had been letting out strangled exclamations of sexually-aroused despair at _every_ suggestion.

If anything, this just reaffirmed the Master and Missy’s initial thought that their play-fight to get the Doctors hot-and-bothered was a brilliant plan, and their wrestling turned more into erotic tussling, the two of them rolling each other over again and again, to no real purpose other than pressing as much naked skin together as possible.

“Candy floss, it is!” the Thirteenth Doctor exclaimed, holding her hand up to the Eleventh Doctor for a high-five at his ingenious suggestion. With one carefully planned practice swing first, he managed to slap their palms together precisely. “Love the colours,” she confessed to the Twelfth Doctor, who was gaping at her in horror for her complicity in his cruel-and-unusual downfall. She winked at him, and then at an equally flabbergasted Tenth, in turn.

And so it was: as all the Doctors past, present, and future circled around, so the Master and Missy suddenly found themselves tossing and turning through brightly-coloured patches of candy floss. The Master rolled Missy though a cloud of purple, and the Master himself was in turn spun through a pillow of yellow and pink. The coloured sugar clung to their legs and their arms and their thighs and their buttocks. And, most importantly, to all their naughty bits, until they might as well have been the confectionary sticks the spun sugar was sold around.

Stunned silence echoed from the crowd around them.

“This…” the First Doctor finally concluded, “is the best idea we’ve _ever_ had!”

None of the other assembled Doctors disagreed with him. However, they _did_ all happen to have curiously simultaneous trouser maladjustments, and most ran off suspiciously, one after the other, in search of their various Masters (although a not-insignificant percentage were too uptight to admit it).

When the Master and Missy finally broke apart, only two Doctors remained. It wasn’t particularly difficult to guess which two.

For the first time the Master allowed himself to look at the Tenth Doctor, and – oh – it had been well worth the wait.

The Tenth Doctor was absolutely _wrecked_. Hair akimbo, eyes black with desire, pink mouth agape and even pinker tongue licking his salivating lips, chest heaving as if he’d been the one doing all the athletic wrestling, the line of those too-skinny pin-stripe trousers completely destroyed by the massive jutting bulge of his erection. The Master savoured the sight: such a pretty Doctor when he was broken, defeated, completely at the Master’s mercy…

Across from him, the Twelfth Doctor wasn’t much better. Missy gave the Master a wink, and then took a deliberate step towards the Twelfth Doctor. The Twelfth Doctor scrambled back in sheer terror at the enemy designed to overwhelm all his most prurient impulses, all the way back into Missy’s room, with her stalking him with predator-like efficiency. And, needless to say, absolutely _rocking_ those high-heeled boots. She slammed the door behind her.

The Master turned to the Tenth Doctor, who winced slightly at the sound of finality. The Tenth Doctor didn’t look horrified the way his Twelfth counterpart had, oh no. The Tenth looked like he couldn’t decide whether Christmas had come early or whether he was afraid that the Master was about to announce that Christmas was about to be cancelled altogether. His expression flickered between utter joy and the depths of despair, in turns.

The Master kept his expression calculated and inscrutable, meeting the Doctor’s eyes steadily but refusing to give him even the slightest tell which way the Doctor’s fortunes might turn, until the Doctor was all but a gibbering, fidgeting mess.

And then, in that one beautiful moment of perfect victory, the Master said, “Yes? Was there something you wanted?”

The Doctor's shoulders slumped in defeat. “Are you,” his finally asked, voice ragged and broken, “coated in spun sugar?”

The Master gave him a smug, triumphant smile. “Might be,” he said cagily, and proceeded to stalk right past the Doctor back to his room.

The Doctor scrambled and half fell over his own feet to chase after the Master. “Because,” the Doctor said hopelessly overeagerly, hot on the Master’s sugar-covered heels, “if you _were_ , hypothetically, I might be able to do something about that…”

The Master entered his room and swung the door shut behind them. He studied the Doctor with narrowed, critical eyes. “Oh, might you?” he teased, and raised his index finger up in front of his face, examining the pale pink wisp of candy floss on the tip.

“ _Hypothetically_ ,” the Doctor whimpered piteously, unable to keep from licking his lips and bobbing his throat in anticipation.

“Hmm,” the Master conceded and, in offering, extended his finger to the Doctor’s lips.

The Doctor latched onto it with the speed and hunger of an ambush predator. His eyes rolled back in his head in rapture, and he moaned obscenely as he sucked on the Master’s finger, laving it on all sides with that dexterous tongue of his.

The Master, for his part, was quite impressed that his knees didn’t buckle immediately.

When the Doctor was through lolling his mouth wantonly all about the Master’s hand, he pulled back long enough to entwine their fingers together and then drew the Master in closer by their joined hands, so that he could kiss his way up the Master’s arm in a parody of some gallant gesture of yore, only with a lot more slurping up of candy floss and licking the Master’s skin clean as new.

The Doctor’s mouth was wet and hot and hungry and tickled terribly. However, the Master didn’t let himself react, move, or even blink excessively. He didn’t want to miss a second of being the current delectable treat that the Doctor felt compelled to explore with tooth and tongue. With rapt fascination, he watched the Doctor gobble up the strands of white candy floss clinging to his elbow, the pink at the biceps, the blue at his shoulder.

When the Doctor was done on that side, he started down the other arm, giving every pocket of sugar the same undivided attention until he’d reached all the way back out to the Master’s fingertips, which on that hand were completely candy-free, yet the Doctor licked each finger in turn, just in case.

“What do you think?” the Doctor asked, dark eyed at where he was still nibbling Master’s fingers.

The Master took a moment to compose himself. Still, his voice came out unexpectedly high on the first syllable when he finally spoke. Strange, what could ever have caused that? “I think that, hypothetically,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster, “I might allow you to continue.”

The Doctor beamed at him, a lightning-quick flash of teeth and joy and adoration, and then he stepped in close and licked a long, thick, wet stripe from the Master’s chin up his cheek over his eye and to his forehead, all in one enthusiastic swipe of his tongue. While the Master whimpered pathetically, the Doctor repeated the same on the other side and then, gently, pressed an almost chaste kiss against the Master’s lips.

“You taste fabulous,” the Doctor informed the Master with a wink, and immediately dropped his mouth to the Master’s collarbone, kissing his body clean.

The Master tangled the fingers of his freshly Doctor-washed hands into the Doctor’s hair, holding the Doctor up against him forcefully, lest there be any doubt whatsoever who exactly was in charge here and who was putty in whose hands.

The Doctor traced his collarbone, meandering infuriatingly, before abruptly changing tack and diving straight in for the Master’s nipple. His tongue twisted and twined around the nub torturously until the Master slumped forward, knees gone to jelly, only the Doctor’s body holding him up anymore.

At that point, the Doctor switched his attention to the Master’s other nipple. Although this one had a considerably larger web of candy floss across it, the Doctor chose to eat the sweet matter-of-factly, not lingering on the Master’s flesh this time.

The Master debated strangling the Doctor for his mercurial attentions (and his hands were in an ideal position to do so), but then the Doctor dropped to his knees, which the Master found it difficult to object to, so that he could lick his way down the Master’s stomach to his erection, which was even less objectionable.

Now, at this point the Master had wrestled naked with himself and then had half his body licked assiduously by the Doctor’s lovely mouth. Needless to say, he was unbearably hard. He took the opportunity to retrieve a fluffy purple cloud of sugar from his hip and affix it directly to the tip of his cock. After all, it wouldn’t do to be too subtle about what he wanted.

The Doctor seemed to understand his point, given the way his mouth enveloped the Master’s erection in sudden slick heat. The Master groaned into the Doctor’s mouth, rocking slowly in counterpoint to the swirling motions of the Doctor’s tongue. It was almost hypnotic, falling into pleasure like this, letting the Doctor devour him alive.

The Doctor pulled back to kiss the very tip of the Master, and then he began methodically slurping his tongue up and down the Master’s cock on every side, treating it with twice the reverence he’d given his various sweets. No, scratch that: _ten times_ the reverence. The Master’s entire body tensed with anticipation as the Doctor swirled his tongue lovingly around the Master’s balls, as if they’d got especially sticky with sugar (which, given how many candy-floss-coated kicks Missy had been aiming in their general direction, might even have been entirely true).

The Master then made the mistake of looking down, only to find the Doctor looking back up at him. As if he’d been waiting, the Doctor had the gall to _wink_ at him, and then he – horrifyingly – stopped sucking the Master’s cock, and instead continued kissing his way down the Master’s legs instead to lap up the candy floss there.

The Doctor’s behaviour was so entirely beyond the pale that the Master merely gaped at him in disbelief for one moment. The next, he reached out to try to snag the chaotic spikes of the Doctor’s hair and drag his mouth back to where it properly belonged. Unfortunately, he was too late, and his hands snatched at thin air as the Doctor ducked down to nibble at his ankle.

“Oh no,” the Master growled down at him, “you’re not going to win, not _this_ time.”

The Doctor gave him a cheeky grin from where he’d all but prostrated himself at the Master’s feet in victory and placed an affectionate kiss on the Master’s big toe. “Well,” he considered, “if you _really_ want to win, you might want to turn around. Haven’t got to your back at all yet.”

The Master’s brain short-circuited.

It really was a remarkably strange phenomenon: One moment he was puffed up, ready to exert his innate authority over the Doctor, and then the Doctor said _that_ , and somehow when the Master next had a coherent thought, he found that he was lying on his stomach on the bed, with the Doctor on top of him – equally naked too now, the Master could feel – kissing his way down the vertebrae of the Master’s spine. The Master must’ve had quite a lot of candy floss there too, given how exceptionally attentive the Doctor was being.

The Doctor felt the Master tense beneath him and pressed his bare chest against the Master’s back, which should have made matters a hundred times worse but somehow, inexplicably, _didn’t_. “Shh,” the Doctor soothed against the Master’s ear, “just one more place I need to get to.”

The Master whimpered because he knew _exactly_ which place the Doctor meant.

As predicted, the Doctor dipped right back down to the Master’s tailbone, and he nibbled on the base of the Master’s spine teasingly. Then, the Master felt the Doctor’s hands on the insides of his knees, parting them.

He snarled and half reared up in response, but the Doctor shot one hand out to catch the middle of the Master’s back, pinning him down. The Master moved to struggle, because this was not the correct order of things, but another soft hush from the Doctor’s lips stopped him in his tracks.

“Thought experiment: one person’s just lying down enjoying themselves; the other is doing every single thing in their power to bring the first person pleasure, no matter how degrading; which one is dominant? Which one has _won_?” the Doctor argued.

The Master groaned but somehow still had the presence of mind to retort, “It depends on how much candy floss I sat in.”

There was a notable pause from behind him. “Point,” the Doctor finally conceded, voice gone hoarse. “But I’d really, _really_ like to find out the answer to that question.”

The Doctor did sound so exceptionally _needy_ when he said it. The Master suddenly doubted that, if he allowed this, he’d even be the one receiving the most pleasure from it. He shifted his hips slightly, just to make the Doctor uncomfortable, to make him _squirm_ with want. A pity he couldn’t see the Doctor’s face: this one was just so _pretty_ when he despaired over how the Master would let him look but not touch. Not _taste_.

He could feel the Doctor growing tenser by the minute, his breaths hot and quick against the Master’s arse, all but salivating over that last forbidden pleasure denied to his sweet tooth. And then, just as he felt the Doctor wilt behind him in defeat, he looked back over his shoulder, raised one eyebrow, and demanded, “Well?”

The Doctor _broke_ so beautifully, his expression one of foolish hope and utter disbelief, and then before the Master could snatch that hope away, his mouth was back on the skin of at the base of the Master’s spine. His tongue slicked its way down into the cleft between the Master’s cheeks, while at the same time one of his hands stroked around the Master’s cock before sliding up and back to his perineum, so that hand and tongue were destined to meet very shortly. As if still not trusting that this was allowed, the Doctor’s other hand stayed firm on the Master’s mid-back, holding him in place.

The Master let his head slump onto his folded arms in front of himself and closed his eyes. Oh, that _was_ nice, the way the Doctor’s tongue was warm and wet at first, but as it slid further down, the skin he’d just abandoned chilled with evaporation, causing delightful little shivers to tingle up the Master’s spine.

The Doctor’s fingers reached the Master’s pucker first, but those were shy and tentative, teasing in a way that the Master would not have allowed for long. Then, however, the Doctor’s tongue arrived, and that wasn’t shy at all. The Doctor sunk his tongue deep into the Master the way he had all his other delectable treats: direct and eager and ravenous.

The Master bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut tight to stop himself from crying out, but even he couldn’t stop the involuntary rocking of his hips back into the Doctor’s mouth. The Doctor’s tongue was so _long_ , just as long as it had seemed when sucking on sweets. The Master could feel it exploring him, lapping as far in as it could go, stretched out thin to get as far inside him as it could.

Then the Doctor flicked it back out, and the Master could hear the _slurp_ against his inner walls. A forbidden whimper escaped his lips at the sound.

The Doctor caught on to his new weapon in this battle between them immediately, of course. The next attack of his tongue was a fast, quick, deep series of thrusts, loud and messy as the Doctor slicked him out with saliva.

_Slurp, slurp, slurp._

The Doctor sounded even happier licking out the Master than he had with his other treats earlier. That had always been horribly unfair of this Doctor: how dare he be so willing and eager and _joyous_ at having the Master? Didn’t he understand what that _did_ to the Master’s self-control?

In point of fact, the Master was entirely certain that the Doctor did know, and used that fact against the Master deliberately, maliciously.

The Doctor’s tongue went flat and broad on his next pass, stretching out the Master’s opening. The Master could feel the very tip flicking against his insides, teasing just the edges of the pleasure centres within, remaining deliberately not quite deep enough. He thrust his hips back into the Doctor, because he was hardly going to put up with that sort of disobedience.

The Doctor slurped back out with what sounded suspiciously like a little chuckle. However, before the Master could buck him off, chide him, and then fuck him senseless, the Doctor licked back inside him. And this time he could feel that the Doctor had rolled his tongue, so that he was thick and long at once, and that was _the best_.

The Master collapsed limply forward onto the mattress beneath the Doctor as the Doctor licked in and out of him like that, merciless, over and over, piercing inside of him again and again. Like this, the Doctor’s tongue caught all the muscles ringing the Master’s passage. Such delicious irony that Time Lords had so many vestigial pleasure organs inside them; apparently at one point orgasm had been even more critical to their species’ survival than breathing or the beating of life itself since, while the respiratory and cardiac systems only merited one redundant organ, the Master was reminded again that there were at least six separate pleasure spots within him, and all were firing in rapidly increasing pulses in a cyclical rhythm with each other. And all those uptight inbreds on Gallifrey never even knew. Idiots.

The Doctor’s hand slipped under the Master’s hips to wrap around the base of the Master’s cock, holding him tight for one moment to prevent immediate orgasm. Then, in perfect counterpoint to his tongue, the Doctor loosened his grasp to slide his palm over the Master’s length in three quick strokes. _Slurp, slurp, slurp_ and _fap, fap, fap_ sounded obscenely through the bedroom.

The Master buried his face deep into the pillow to keep from shouting out any embarrassing confessions and came messily around the Doctor’s tongue and into his palm. The Doctor continued to lap up his insides, cleaning him thoroughly from within, while the Master came down in trembling shocks.

Then, with the Master a helpless puddle beneath him, the Doctor flipped the Master over onto his back so that the Master could watch, with sex-bleared eyes, as the Doctor licked each and every one of his fingers clean of the Master’s come. Such a tidy mouth this Doctor had. Either that, or a messy one. Or both at once.

The Master groaned. He did so love a sexy contradiction.

He would’ve fucked the Doctor properly then, but he was feeling just a tad too relaxed at the moment, and the Doctor had gone over all soft and sated as if – unsurprisingly – getting his tongue inside the Master at long last had triggered his orgasm all on its own.

Instead, the Doctor settled against the Master’s chest with a smile when he was done, spindly arms and legs latching around the Master from all sides like a clinging vine. The Master wondered sometimes, when the Doctor had him ensnared in the aftermath like this, whether the Doctor hadn’t succeeded in catching him in a particularly insidious trap.

“There,” the Doctor concluded triumphantly, “that’s the last of the candy floss.”

The Master had entirely forgotten that the candy floss had ever existed. “Oh,” he agreed wispily, “good.”

The Doctor nuzzled his chest adoringly. And then (unsurprisingly) the Master felt some lazy after-licking against his collarbone.

He snorted and rolled away onto his side defensively. “And,” he added with a little harrumph, “just for the record, I never let you do any of that.”

The Doctor spooned up behind him, bafflingly persistent in his belief that the Master needed to be drowned in affection. “Ri-i-i-ight,” he agreed. “You held me down and fucked me into the mattress, as usual. Very masterfully. You’re completely and absolutely the big spoon, always. Wouldn’t dream of telling a soul otherwise.”

The Master harrumphed again and squirmed restlessly in the Doctor’s arms until the Doctor pressed tighter against him, his arms wrapping around the Master from behind. Which, of course, wasn’t what the Master had intended at _all_ by squirming in the first place, honestly. He readjusted the Doctor’s hand against his chest up a few inches and leaned back into the warmth of his body, to demonstrate his extreme disapproval.

The Doctor’s fingers twirled in the Master’s chest hairs absentmindedly. “So, given that that just didn’t happen at _all_ ,” he began hesitantly, “what would you think if, hypothetically, when it doesn’t happen next time, you covered yourself in whipped cream?”

The Master engaged his respiratory bypass because he was going to need it to get his second wind, and expressed his thoughts on that matter most eloquently.

***

The Doctor frowned at the bomb in front of him. _1 minute, 4 seconds_ , read the countdown.

Something clattered behind him.

He ignored it and carefully gripped the edges of the detonator, pulling it slowly free of the casing. _58 seconds._

And then, cruelly, from behind him: _Slurp._

The Doctor froze, wide-eyed. Before him the bomb continued to tick down to the destruction of the world. There were wires, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew what those wires did, but it was really hard to remember when:

_Sl-Slurp._

Against his will, he turned around to see what the Master could possibly be doing. _39 seconds_ , said the countdown. But that was still plenty of time, right? And he absolutely _had_ to know…

He gulped and lost complete track of his temporal senses at the very distracting sight behind him. The Master, apparently entirely unconcerned about the planet’s impending doom, had availed himself of the lab’s kitchenette to make himself a nice snack while the Doctor had been preoccupied trying to save everyone’s lives.

The evidence before the Doctor’s eyes painted a clear and stark picture of what had happened: the toaster still hot and smelling of a very familiar aroma, the jar left open on the table with butter knife stuck inside, a white plate overturned (undoubtedly the sound of that clatter), and the toast that had been upon it – per the fundamental laws of the universe – fallen face down on the table. And there, where the Master had obviously tried in vain to catch the fallen toast, was the Master’s hand, fingers coated in spilled jam.

“Don’t mind me,” the Master said with a wicked smirk, and licked his ring finger clean with another loud slurp.

That meant that now only the Master’s middle and index fingers remained coated in jam; time was of the essence!

The Doctor dove for the Master, caught his wrist between his palms, and hurriedly engulfed the Master’s remaining two jam-covered fingers as far into his mouth as he could get them. The sweet taste of strawberries flooded his senses.

Somewhere, in the background, the bomb went off, destroying possibly all the known universe except for the Doctor, the Master, and the jam on the Master’s hand. The Doctor shrugged and continued licking the Master’s fingers clean; after all, he had his priorities straight.

And the Master’s revenge was, indeed, sweet.

_Slurp._


End file.
